A Homecoming
by HyenaFace
Summary: Before an orc can bring glory to the Horde, they must leave their childhood behind.


The high sun glared down upon Durotar, and the heat of its gaze cooked the rocks until they shimmered in the brightness. It was as if that great orb desired to cleanse the land with its fire, but in a tenaciously, spiteful way, life continued upon the hard-baked earth and payed the sun no mind. The scorpions skittered amidst the rocks, searching for their terrified meals; the snakes sped across the sands, avoiding the scorpions with wriggling grace; the boars ignored them both and rooted amongst the cacti for scraggy fruits; and one, young orc crawled slowly across a hot bolder, watching the boars with practiced intensity.

He moved his thick, corded arms slowly, slowly, so as to not draw the attention of the rummaging boars below. The hot rock burned his bare skin, but he simply grimaced and pulled himself forward another few inches. The boulder's light dusting of sand hissed against the orc's leather jerkin, and the northerly wind tossed a bit of it into his face. He blinked clear his blue eyes, and smelled again the thick musk of wild boar which had drawn him. He was in position. The hunter snaked an arm to his lower back and began unsheathing his bow.

"_Skarphedin,"_ said a gruff voice in the orc's mind, one of an endless number of fatherly instructions, _"never assume yourself hidden. The prey is ever watchful."_

Yes, father, Skarphedin thought to himself as he slowly edged his bow off his back and onto the hot rock beside him.

"_The rise is the most critical moment. Wait for your prey's attention to be devoted."_

Skarphedin waited, prone atop the hot bolder, baking in the sun. The boar, ten feet below, sniffed about a clump of cacti. The wind gusted, blowing more sand into the orc's face. He blinked it away. The screech of a hunting bird echoed faintly in the sky.

The boar sniffed eagerly, then drove its snout into a small bramble, rooting for some treat. Skarphedin rose smoothly to his knee and set an arrow to his bow. The boar crunched happily into a cactus apple and retreated from the bramble, munching eagerly on its find. Sharkhedin's arrow thunked into the boar's spine, and with a surprised whine, the boar keeled over, it's slobbery find rolling from its maw and becoming covered in sand.

Skarphedin smiled down upon his kill, but unlike hunting advice, he had no memory of fatherly praise.

The sun was sinking into the sea when Skarphedin came into view of his family's hut. It was a simple, blockish construction of rammed earth, and its two rooms housed Skarphedin along with his parents. Many orcs scorned such houses, preferring the prestige of wood and animal hide, but such resources were hard to find these days in depleted Durotar. Skarphedin also preferred his home to those of his friends, as it was much cooler during the day and stayed warm into the night. He would also have a rammed-earth home for himself, even if one day he could afford wood.

Garnok, his father, heard his approach and appeared in the hut's entrance. He was darkly green, and his lined face was worn with signs of the old curse. "Skarphedin," he barked, and limped forward to meet his son. "You've got a boar, finally. It only took you three days."

Skarphedin's contentment vanished in a surge of remembered anger. "Wild boar is scarce, Garnok," he snarled, "I found this one halfway to the troll village."

Garnok swung an arm and smacked Skarphedin across the face, causing him to drop the boar's corpse. "Don't use my name, peon. You haven't earned the right."

The rebuffed son did not look at his father, instead he stared at his kill, dusty on the ground. That was food, and it was good food that should be celebrated. Instead, it was in the dirt. Skarphedin's rage erupted, and whereas he usually would apologize to his father, pick the boar back up, and receive further fatherly advice and discipline, he did not do this. Instead, he roared and punched Garnok in the face.

The old veteran could take hits, and Garnok rounded back on Skarphedin with surprising alacrity. They shuffled, arms flailing, blows were blocked and landed, clothing was seized, and suddenly they were both in the dirt next to the dead boar, snarling with spittle flying. Skarphedin's mother appeared in the entrance way and stared at them for a moment before egging them on to more ambitious forms of violence, "Pound his head into the dirt! Make him eat it!" It was unclear who she was rooting for.

Garnok was old, but knew much more what he was about, so he quickly climbed astride Skarphedin, raining blows down upon his son's head. "I'm a veteran of the Horde, whelp! I've killed things most have not seen!" It was all Skarphedin could do to protect his head, much less throw his father off of him. In desperation, he delegated an arm to searching the sand while finding it nigh impossible to defend himself with only one blocking arm. Garnok's fist smashed into Skarphedin's head, once, twice.

The son's questing hand found a rock, and seizing it with triumph, he slammed it into Garnok's right kneecap. The older orc screamed in shock and pain. It was the old wound, the one that ended his soldiering. Skarphedin struck again, thist ime slamming the stone into the side of his father's head. The green-skin elder slumped sideways and the younger, yellow-skin shoved him off and regained his feet. Skarphedin stared down at his dazed father. The old orc drooled blood into the dirt and clutched his knee. Skarphedin roared at him, fangs bared, saying in the primal, wordless language of rage: I am stronger. Give me respect or die.

Garnok lifted a hand in surrender and began crying. Skarphedin's was shocked to his core, and his bloodrage vanished. The twilight breeze was suddenly cold upon his glistening skin. His father did not weep. Orcs did not weep. At least in Skarphedin's world, they never had till this moment.

Skarphedin stared at his father with gap-mouthed amazement. Then, he turned this look upon his mother, who was also crying, silent tears sliding down her cheeks. Thoughts attempted to take shape in Skarphedin's head, but they fell apart instantly. He was utterly dumbfounded at this development.

"You're a warrior now, Skarphedin," said Garnok, through his tears. He smiled, "My son has bested me. He is grown tall and strong. Too much for me." He wiped blood from his mouth, "Now go! This is not your home any longer." His voice was hard again, but he added, "Take the boar, so you won't be hungry."

Skarphedin's mother, Thulga, advanced into the yard to stand next to Garnok. "Go," she said, her voice thick with suppressed emotion, "You are not welcome in this house anymore. It is time for you to stand and live as an orc. Your childhood is over." Skarphedin gaped at them. His father regained his feet slowly, favoring his knee. Thulga did not help him. She was not expected to, and would have offended her husband deeply if she had tried.

Skarphedin was in turmoil. The triumphant aftermath of his bloodlust still tingled in his system, but the rage which had brought it to be was gone. His mind was fixated on a memory: a memory of his mother placing a rack of boar ribs in front of him, a feast from one of his father's kills long ago, a time when he had felt safe and satisfied, surrounded by his strong parents. Skarphedin felt heavy with a sudden sorrow, realizing that those times were now over and he would never experience them again.

The growing night was silent as the three orcs stared at each other, mother, father, and son, all of them wrestling with emotions they were unable to express. Finally, Garnok broke the silence and said, "Bring us honor, my son."

Skarphedin nodded, turned, and left his home forever. He left the boar, knowing his father would be unable to hunt for a few days. Thugla and Garnok watched him leave till he vanished in the deepening dusk, and then in the dark where no one could see them, they hugged each other and wept with sorrow for their loss, and they wept with joy for their son's future.


End file.
